


The Final Act

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And so is John, Descriptions of murder, Gore, Jim is heartless, Jim needs a drink, M/M, Poor John, Poor Sherlock, Sherlock is dissapoint, Sherlock is just a liiiiittle crazy, Super graphic descriptions of mutiation, Unrequited Love, everyone dies, gruesome, too soon?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:34:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has always been a fantastic actor, but now is the time to show his true potential. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Death is a funny thing. You can kill people every day, have then sentenced to death and to torture, but when it’s staring you in the face and the smell is pervading the air, it makes you sick. Jim opens his eyes and has to swallow his bile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Final Act

**Author's Note:**

> (AN: This started as an Omegle RP and snowballed out of control. It hurts and its beautiful and Sherlock is a crazy, crazy, bastard. <3

Sherlock washed his hands, expression calm and collected as he watched the blood run down the sink in a whirlpool of scarlet merging to pink. It was done. Good. He was going to get what he wanted, what he needed; that relief from eternal boredom by being with the only other person like him. The only person better than him. He picks up his mobile, typing in the one word that will start his salvation. 

James . –SH

Jim was sitting at his desk, fiddling with Sebastian’s dog tags when he heard his phone go off. He hummed along to the tune for a moment before opening the message. Odd. Sherlock never texted him. He typed out a quick reply, hoping for another game.

Yes, Sherly? –JMx

Sherlock shut his bedroom door, ignoring the faint scent of copper. It was quiet, too quiet. The sort of quiet that let his thoughts run rampant and threaten to consume him. The sound from his phone calmed him immensely. 

I have a request. –SH

 

Jim’s reply was near instantaneous, pulling his legs up in his chair and grinning. This would be brilliant. Sherlock never disappointed him.

I’ll hear it. –JMx

 

Sherlock bit his lip for a second before crossing the room to the kitchen, putting the kettle on with calculated, precise movements. Everything seemed to be moving in freeze-frame, every little detail a high definition snapshot. He returned his attention to his mobile.

Come over. I’ve made you something. –SH

 

Jim raises an eyebrow at that. Made him something? What does that mean? He considers the fact that it may be a trap and calls Seb into his office. “Basher, get your gun. We’re going to Baker Street.” He says, his grin reptilian. Sebastian rolls his eyes but nods, going to do as he is bidden. 

Made something, have you dearest? Will I like this something? –JMx

 

Sherlock smirks at his screen, propping back against the counter. His hands ache for his violin but he knows now is not the time for introspection. Now is the time to watch his little play work out. 

Oh yes. Very much so. –SH

 

Jim slides his mobile into his jacket pocket, getting up and shoving his chair back with a flourish. He grabs his coat and slips out the door, calling for Sebastian to follow him. Jim reaches Baker Street at six o’ three, precisely twelve minutes after he received the last text. He goes in, confident in his knowledge that Sebastian has his gun trained on Sherlock if he were to try anything. He stops, frowning as his mobile buzzes. 

Boss, something’s not right. –SM

What do you mean not right, Moran? –JMx

I mean Watson’s not home. Sherlock’s in the kitchen. Just… be careful. –SM

Jim sighs, rolling his eyes. Of course Watson’s not home. Watson can’t know about their little game. He knocks on the door to the flat, a small smirk playing over his lips.

Sherlock walks quickly to the front door, swinging it open and grinning at Jim. Something is off about that. Sherlock doesn’t grin. In fact, his eyes seem wrong too. Something new glittering in the background. “Hello James.” He says, his voice all cool silk, almost purring.  
Jim raises an eyebrow at Sherlock, nodding curtly and coming in without being invited. “Hello Sherly. Where’s the doctor?” he asks, glancing around the room with his hands in his pockets.  
Sherlock’s lip twitches briefly, just slightly, but he avoids the question. “Tea?”  
Jim narrows his eyes. “Yes. Two sugars. No milk.”  
Sherlock chuckles and heads towards the kitchen. His steps are all deliberate, each one a perfectly measured act in this play. It’s going off without a hitch. He returns with a tray and two tea cups, setting them on the coffee table. “Sit, please.”  
Jim sits gracefully, watching Sherlock’s every movement. Something is wrong, something is definitely off. It all seems strangely premeditated, like his every move is being scripted. “What’s going on here?” He asks, taking his tea cup and sniffing it. Fine. No poison, then. He takes a cursory sip.  
Sherlock breaks into another grin. “I made you something.” He repeats, jumping to his feet and hurrying off towards his bedroom. A few minutes later, he calls for Jim.  
Jim frowns, following the sound of Sherlock’s voice. He meets him there at the closed door to his bedroom. “Sher-“  
“Close your eyes, please. You’ll love this.” He’s grinning crookedly and that’s when Jim realizes what it is that’s off about him. The glint in his eyes is one of pure madness. Obsession and utter insanity, two things Jim knows quite well. But this… this could be bad. He swallows, but shuts his eyes. He trusts Sebastian to shoot if he’s in any danger.  
Sherlock giggles a little as he gently leads Jim forward, pushing the door open and holding the smaller man gently by his shoulders. Ah yes, the climax of the play, the great reveal of the great piece of art. The devotion is obvious in his voice when he speaks. “Look, please, Jim. I did it for you.”  
Death is a funny thing. You can kill people every day, have then sentenced to death and to torture, but when it’s staring you in the face and the smell is pervading the air, it makes you sick. Jim opens his eyes and has to swallow his bile. He doesn’t mind it, really, not the body so much. John Watson is dead. He’s hung on the wall, pinned up like a dead butterfly to cardboard backing. He has four daggers through him, one in each hand and one through each ankle. His chest is exposed, a gaping hole cut precisely over where his heart belongs. His lips have been carved into a wide, dead-eyed grin. No, what bothers Jim is that this isn’t Sherlock. Not the Sherlock he wants.   
“Oh Sherlock…” Jim says and his voice doesn’t hide his disappointment. He turns to the taller man, patting his shoulder.  
Sherlock looks puzzled. “You don’t like it? I did it for you.” He repeats, his tone showing his urgency, his devotion to his play.  
Jim shakes his head. “I think you misinterpreted my line of work. Obviously, I have done the same with you. Sherlock… this is not what I do. I do not mutilate people without cause-“  
Sherlock shakes his head, “Not without cause. I did this for you. I thought this was what you wanted.”  
Jim frowns, putting a hand on Sherlock’s chest and brushing their lips together lightly. “No, Sherlock. I am not some dark deity who wants a blood offering.” He stays there for a moment, allowing the disappointment to settle in.  
“But… Jim… this is for you… I need you.” His eyes fill with bewilderment, fear.  
Jim shakes his head, “You don’t need anybody Sherlock.”  
“I do! Without you I’m nothing, Jim. Please, take me. Please.” He’s begging, tears prickling the corners of his eyes. This wasn’t meant to happen, the play wasn’t meant to end this way.  
Jim steps back, sadly. “No, Sherlock. Obviously you are not the man I thought you were.”  
Sherlock falls to his knees, kissing Jim’s shoes. “Please, Jim, please. I want to be with you, to belong to you, please.”  
Jim pulls away, looking distastefully down at him. “Get up.” He says coldly.  
Sherlock does as he says, body sagging forward as he gets to his feet. “I- I got you his heart, yes?” He stammers, reaching for a jar on his side table.  
“No. Sherlock, stop it.” Jim orders. He feels sick, disgusted with this man. He is not extraordinary. He is not amazing. He is not like him. He’s ordinary. And ordinary psychopath and that hurts.  
Sherlock stares at him, confused as to why it didn’t work. This is what Jim wanted, but he doesn’t like it. “J-jim?...”  
Jim shakes his head. He hates it; he hates the fact that Sherlock fooled him into feeling. Into thinking for one second that maybe he wasn’t alone. He steps forward, catching Sherlock in his arms.  
The taller man collapses against him, a sob breaking free of his lips. “Pl-please Jim…”  
Jim bites his lip, wrapping one hand in Sherlock’s curls and turning his head to kiss his temple. “No. Kiss me again before I go.”  
Sherlock tightens his grip on Jim, grabbing at his suit jacket frantically. “No. No, don’t leave me, please.”  
Jim sighs, pulling away. “I’m going, Sherlock. Kiss me.” He holds Sherlock’s face in his hands, kissing him gently for the last time. “I am so sorry.” He says, and he means it.  
He cocks a thumb over his shoulder, stepping back. Sherlock looks perplexed for one more second before a bullet whizzes over Jim’s left shoulder and straight through his forehead. He collapses forward, face frozen in that raw, innocent confusion. Jim turns, not looking back at the mess. It is the end of an era and it hurts. 

Burn it down Sebastian. Take me home and get me a drink. –JMx


End file.
